After 72 hours of nothing but carbs, I couldn’t wait to detox.
After 30 hours of nothing but water, coconut water, and green tea (hot, flavoured water) – I couldn’t wait to eat. Anything.
A trip to Auckland had turned into an excuse to visit the newest and best big-city eateries: poutine at Federal Deli, tacos and sangria at Mexico, a baguette from La Boulange, a Little and Friday doughnut, Sal’s pizza before boozing, and a McDonald’s double cheeseburger combo the morning after.
Back in Wellington, I felt terrible, and decided to go on a detox to press the restart button on my eating habits.
"Afterwards, I felt like nothing so much as a nice glass of coconut water." Photo: Unknown
The timing was right: there were no social events coming up that I’d have to pike on or, worse, attend sober; I had plenty to keep me busy at work; and my gym membership had expired.
Plus, saving for an upcoming trip overseas wasn’t going as well as I’d hoped, mostly due to meals out: my bank statement read like a list of restaurants around town (if you consider McDonald’s a restaurant). An added incentive to cook at home could only be good for my pocket.
I roped my sister into going halves with me on an Auckland nutritionist’s “kickstart” programme that I’d seen splashed all over Millie Elder-Holmes’ Instagram. If Millie could kick P, we could manage a fortnight without pizza.
Aside from one day of fasting a week, the two-week eating plan allowed for three meals a day. My last meal was a halloumi burger and a beer, followed by a Kit-Kat. From 11pm that Tuesday to 8am Thursday, I didn’t eat at all – unless you count three litres of water with lemon juice, half a litre of coconut water, one mug of black coffee and two of green tea eating, which, frankly, I don’t.
This was my first experience with restricted eating since the 40-Hour Famine in high school, and I cheated during that. (“It’s just an exercise in pretending to be poor,” I remember thinking with scorn as I ploughed into some vege crisps.)
The next day, I was surprised to learn that fasting between meals was harder than going without food for a full 24 hours: at first, the five-hour countdown from breakfast to lunch was excruciating.
That said, 30-odd hours without food was easier than I’d thought it would be. Feelings of actual hunger were fleeting: most of the time, I was just light-headed, like being hungover, but without the nausea or sleep deprivation.
“The worst thing is, you start to like that feeling,” said This Way Up producer Richard Scott cheerfully, as I grimly squeezed a lemon into my water bottle in the kitchenette. He had been on the 5:2 diet for a couple of months. “It’s like Kate Moss said: nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.”
The next day, I was surprised to learn that fasting between meals was harder than going without food for a full 24 hours: at first, the five-hour countdown from breakfast to lunch was excruciating.
But I came to appreciate the feeling of anticipating food, as opposed to absent-mindedly munching on the rice crackers and muesli bars I kept in my desk drawer (which I’d given to my colleague, who oscillated between concerned for my health and scornful of my folly, for safe-keeping.)
It helped that the meals were good: a frittata with goat’s feta, marinated beef shish kebab with grilled asparagus, baked chicken breast with pesto and broccoli. I’ve never been a natural in the kitchen, but cooking to the plan forced me to broaden my repertoire from ‘lazy pasta’ and ‘odd but not inedible combination of leftovers’, and I was proud of the results.
But I soon realised how much my social interaction was centred around eating and drinking, and the hours passed slowly without it. I cleaned the apartment; watched half of the first season of The Sopranos; painted all ten digits for the first time all year; and baked muffins for my flatmates (because I am, apparently, a masochist).
I also resisted the urge to maim my boyfriend when he turned up at my house with a Moro bar, which I counted as a win.
By day five, my energy levels had stabilised, and I was no longer exhausted after the short walk from the bus stop to work. My skin was clear, I was having fewer cravings, and I was dropping weight at a disturbingly rapid rate.
I stumbled for the first time on day six, when I ate a muffin from the second batch I’d made in two days, and I realised there was a fine line between anticipating food and obsessing over it.
It reminded me of Marge Simpson acting out on her fear of flying with frenetic activity in the kitchen. Photo: Unknown
My feverish bouts of baking were not so much about wanting to treat my flatmates, as I justified them, as they were about wanting to be around food even if I couldn’t have it. It reminded me of Marge Simpson acting out on her fear of flying with frenetic activity in the kitchen.
Brunch that weekend posed a problem, too. Unfeasibly tipsy after a half-mug of Buck’s Fizz to celebrate our Saturday Morning takeover, I met a friend at a cafe, where I exceeded my daily limit of one black coffee by another two black coffees; neglected to ask for no dressing on my salad; and shared a slice of cake.
It was a grim reminder of how even the slightest amount of alcohol can dissolve your resolve – and how difficult it is to eat simply and healthily outside your own home.
At the end of the two weeks, carbs and sugar made me feel horrible. Nonetheless, I was raring to go for my much-anticipated ‘cheat meal’, which began with a malai kofta and naan, and then pushed the limits of the word ‘meal’, both in terms of nutritional value and volume, further than I care to explicitly itemise here. Afterwards, I felt like nothing so much as a nice glass of coconut water.
Keeping to such a regimen came at the cost of being a ‘chill bro’ (I regularly had to take ingredients for three separate meals – which is to say, half of Commonsense Organics – to my boyfriend’s house) and the kind of special treats and nice surprises that can make your day.
Today, a couple of months on, I try to keep to the principles of the detox about 70 per cent of the time. I feel better if I do more than that, and worse if I do less. It’s not rocket science, but though I could have started eating healthy without the programme, I think I’d have found it harder to stick to it. But the odd lasagne-induced headache is a small price to pay for being free to eat lasagne, every once in a while.